Sins of the Father
by Scarlett MacAlliestor
Summary: HPVampire: The Masquerade crossover; Severus has been Embraced and has no knowledge of his sire. In a moment of frenzy he Sires another, a new professor at the school. His actions have created new problems for him. He now has a childe to care for and


The streets of London are a lovely place to wander when you're a member of the undead society. So many mortals to watch and ponder and feed from. It really is the only place for a Hogwarts professor who wishes to feed "from the buffet line" as the crass American Kindred state it. Oh, of course it's possible to have blood from all over the world shipped to you at Hogwarts, in such a way as to preserve the Masquerade. But blood of that sort – long dead and having been sent through the post – it just isn't the same. It's well preserved, I shall give the blood banks that. Yet, something about it just isn't the same.  
  
It is a Friday evening, and I watch the young adults walking about, celebrating their freedom from school and work. I remember, as a mortal, Fridays were always a magical day for me as well. Now, however, with as many Fridays as I could ever wish for at my very fingertips . . . Well, somehow the nostalgia has slipped away. Muggles. As a wizard I used to think that they were so simple. That wizards and witches were at the very apex of the evolutionary chain. What a fool I was.  
  
And then one evening I was given the enlightenment. Embraced by a vampire, of what clan I will never be sure. Perhaps she was a caitiff, as I am now, with no Kindred family to call my own and the recipient of the hatred of them all. All I know is that she gave me a taste of immortality and I have been glutting myself on it ever since. No instruction. No education. Simply created and then turned out on my own. To survive as best I could. Had I been a muggle, with no education in the occult whatsoever, I would have certainly perished or been discovered that first night. I would have gone mad. I might have killed myself.  
  
But, as with every problem I face, I ran to Albus. A frightened child seeking solace in the arms of the father he never had. He had comforted me. Fed me. Assured me that what I had become would never change his affection for me. Assured me that it wasn't my fault. And just like that first night that I came to him, after receiving the dark mark and realizing the monster that I was, he had persuaded me not to flee the safety of the castle.  
  
"The world beyond these walls is one of darkness," he had told me. And now, walking the streets of dirty London town all by me onesy, I understand what he had meant. I smell others of my kind. I know that they smell me as well. But they remain at bay, never venturing out to wish me neither any ill nor any good will. To this day I have never made the acquaintance of any vampire aside from my sire. And I believe it unlikely that I shall ever meet a crossbreed such as myself. A mixture of wizard and Kindred. And as if the loneliness of my mortal life had not been enough, the complete seclusion of Kindred life has brought me to my knees, emotionally speaking.  
  
What's this? A young woman out all on her own as well. And on a Friday evening? She must be between companions at the moment. I sniff the air with a preternatural longing. Where my stomach would be I feel only a dull, empty ache. Where my throat was I feel only a parched, itching frenzy. She is pure as the snow that falls in silence from above. I watch her pass me, her face to the ground, her arms full of parcels from the grocer and the chemist. I must have her.  
  
"May I help you with these," I coo beside her ear as I glide noiselessly up behind her. Obviously she hadn't sensed me because she gasped loudly and started, dropping all of her packages into the snow. She looks up at me, into my eyes, and is mesmerized, as most mortals tend to be. Her mouth opens and closes like that of a fish and I smile coyly before stooping to recover her items from the sidewalk. My arms now full, rather than hers, I stand again at full height, just a foot or so taller, and look down on her, willing her to be calm.  
  
"I'm sorry, I just . . . Well I hadn't heard you come up behind me," she stammers in a sweet and airy voice. Her hair, which hides below a tartan scarf, is blonde and she wears a pair of black spectacles, which slide down her short ski slope of a nose. She pushes them up with the first finger of her left hand and I breathe a silent sight of relief. She isn't married. Or engaged for that matter. I may expect to find a cat at home, but certainly no knight in shining armor to attempt to fight me off. I won't have to commit a second murder this evening.  
  
"It's quite alright. May I carry these up for you?"  
  
She stammers again, looking at the posh apartment building behind her and back at me reluctantly. "How did you . . ."  
  
"I saw that you had your key out," I answer before she even has to ask. "And the tote that you're carrying," I point to it and then raise my eyebrows at her as I nod at the sign before the building. They both bear the name "Neiman Struthers Flats Inc."  
  
She rolls her eyes at herself and laughs one breathy note. "I'm sorry. Silly Bridget."  
  
"Bridget," I echo her name approvingly. She holds out her hand for me to shake and I raise my arms, reminding her that they are full of her own packages.  
  
"Oh, right. I can be so stupid. Here," she answers quickly as she turns and waves me up the stone stairs to the entryway of the flats. She holds the doors open for me at the top and together we navigate the hallway to the lifts. This is just the place I would have lived were I a muggle. Tile floors, high vaulted ceilings. Dark woodwork and dim lighting. The place is filled with the souls of those who have lived here before – I can feel them. It has a character, as much as any building can.  
  
"It was built in 1783 as a hotel," she tells me before I even ask. I raise my eyebrows, half in surprise of her perception and half in surprise at the age of the building. We enter the lift and ride up to the fifth floor in silence. I follow her down another tiled hallway to her flat – 6E. She unlocks the door and pushes it open and I follow her to just inside the foyer, where I set down her parcels and adjust my coat as if I am about to leave.  
  
"Can I take your coat," she asks from around the corner. I hear a closet door click open and a coat hanger screech off of its metal holder. I weigh my options. Obviously I will be feeding off of her tonight. That much had been determined before I even spoke to her the first time. However, imposing on someone's domain is neither my modus operandi nor is it good manners. I look around, taking in the place. It really is spectacular, and if I had followed her home for any other reason I am convinced that this evening would have ended in what I suspect would be a very pleasing and stimulating coital experience. However, I didn't. And it won't. So I place my hands in the pockets of my woolen trench coat and rock back and forth from ball to heel of my feet.  
  
"Oh, I should probably be going. I have a lot to –"  
  
"I could make you a cup of tea," she almost pleads as she pops into view from around the corner. If I could breathe she would have stopped my breath. There she stood, de-coated, so to speak, in a black and gray tartan miniskirt, a black v-neck sweater, black tights and a pair of gray wool flats with black rubber soles. For a moment she stunned me, and for a vampire this is neither a comfortable nor an expected experience.  
  
"Well, I suppose a few moments wouldn't hurt. But forego the tea. I've just come from Mummy's, you see, and am not thirsty."  
  
"Okay," she answers quickly as she steps forward to slide my coat, which I have unbuttoned finally, off my shoulders. She takes it across her left forearm and carries it back around the corner to hang. I bend down and untie my leather oxfords, sliding them quietly below a desk in the foyer, upon which Bridget has laid her keys. Then, before she returns, I glide back to the door, turn the latch, and turn again so that I will be facing her when she returns.  
  
Which she does presently. She stands there in the interim between her family room and the foyer. Directly behind her is a stately white settee, its back to us, and beyond that all of the customary family room furniture. A great window hung with sheer white curtains is on the far wall at which I stare. To the right of the window is what I am guessing is the kitchen and directly to her right is a hallway leading, in my best estimation, to her loo and her bedroom.  
  
She is watching me as I stand, taking everything in, and I can sense her desperation. Her need. This is what I have preyed on, what I have exploited since the beginning. It is why she has invited me upstairs in the first place. And she thinks that it is why I have accepted. Finally, after looking at everything before me, I look straight at her. I look her deep in the eyes and I make sure to convey through my own some sort of "come hither" suggestion.  
  
I cross the foyer in my stockinged feet, making absolutely no sound upon the Italian marble below them. I take her head in both of my hands and kiss her hard upon the lips. She second guesses herself at first. She hadn't expected me to be so direct. But soon she gives in and kisses me back with a passion I had almost not expected from her. Almost. I push her backwards, against the tall back of the settee, and she places her hands upon it for support.  
  
My hands move down her chin to her throat, the object of my greatest affection, and then down her shoulders and arms where I grip her biceps firmly. I place one of my legs between her two, separating them, and she throws her head back, breaking our embrace and gasping for air. I push harder against her, allowing her to feel what she believes to be a very mortal reaction to the proximity of our bodies. And then, as her hands are sliding their way from my shoulders to my sides to areas that I do not wish her to explore, I take what I have come here for.  
  
Slowly, so as not to hurt her any more than I have to, I slide my fangs, like warm knives through butter, into her vein and revel in the feeling of her Vitae flowing into me. Like a sip from the fountain of life. At first her hands clench into fists, pulling me closer to her. But eventually, as the level of blood in her body dwindles from a lot to a little to none at all, her arms, followed by her entire body, slumps into my capable arms.  
  
When I feel the last drops making their way to the surface I pull my head back, as she had from our kiss, gasping in the same manner. Everything in my sight has gone a fuzzy shade of white and I feel as if I have just taken a handful of painkillers. My heart flutters in its cage and my hands tremble with the purity of the life I have just taken. I check her breathing. There is none. Her eyes are open and her face is fixed in a look of surprise and pleasure all in one. I bring her neck again to my mouth, this time placing a drop of saliva on each puncture wound. They sizzle and cauterize themselves, slowly going from red to pink and back to skin tone. It looks as though nothing has ever happened. Except the fact that silly Bridget has gone and died. I pick her up, sling her across both of my arms, and carry her around to the other side of the settee. There I lay her down, arranging her comfortable and closing her eyes.  
  
I cross the room and retrieve my coat and replace my shoes. Checking myself in the mirror above the desk for any sign of blood spilt upon myself, and finding none, I smooth my shoulder length black hair back into place and turn the latch on the door. I turn to face the back of the settee one last time, see Bridget's toe sticking out from one side of it, and close the door behind me as I leave. For a brief moment, I feel satisfied. 


End file.
